Baby on Board. Lisa Ruff

in question over his dark brown eyes.

      “You don’t want to know,” Patrick said.

      “The reason you just punched your truck?” Ian grinned. He held a canvas tool bag in one hand, a coping saw sticking out one end. The other hand balanced a long oak plank over his shoulder. “Yeah, I want to know.” Deftly, he swung the board down and leaned it against the tailgate. He dropped the tool bag in the bed of the truck and took a seat next to Patrick on the bumper. His long legs matched Patrick’s as they stretched out from the truck. “Spill it.”

      Patrick sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He could think of no way to dress up the truth and make it sound better, so he just blurted it out. “Kate’s pregnant.”

      Ian shook his head and laughed outright. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. The Berzanis are a fertile bunch.” When Patrick glared at him, Ian shrugged. “So, this is a bad thing?”

      “No, it’s not a bad thing.” Patrick ground the words out from between clenched teeth.

      “So why attack your truck?”

      “Kate doesn’t want me involved.”

      “That’s a bad thing.” Ian was silent for a moment. “How’d you screw this one up?”

      “I didn’t screw up!” Patrick rose to his feet to pace. All the anger he had felt came rushing back, pushing aside the hurt. “She thinks I can’t be a good father if I’m at sea all the time.”

      Ian looked at Patrick, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “I see her point. Tough to be good at something if you’re not there to do it.”

      “I could be a good father whether I race or not.”

      “What, you’re going to get the kid a berth in the Trans-Oceana race? Show him the ropes before he can crawl?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Then how are you going be around to do the fathering?”

      “Who said I wouldn’t be around?”

      Ian looked at his hands. “You just did.”

      Patrick gritted his teeth in frustration. “I wouldn’t race all the time. I could cut back some.”

      “Sounds reasonable. Did you tell her that?”

      “She wouldn’t let me. She just kept saying she didn’t want me involved.” His jaw tightened. “She’s got a list.”

      “A list?”

      “A list of potential fathers. She doesn’t want me, so she’s, she’s…interviewing other candidates, I guess.”

      “Really?” Ian was silent again. “What are you going to do about it?”

      “Stop her. What else?”

      “All right, then.” Ian stood and turned to grab his tool bag out of the truck. Before he picked up the board again, he ran a hand across the dents in the tailgate. “That’s number three. How long have you had this rig? Two years? When are you going to stop punching it?”

      “Better my truck than your ugly face.” With his good hand, Patrick grabbed his own bag.

      “As if you’d even have a chance,” Ian scoffed, but he smiled at Patrick.

      They walked across the parking lot to the marina office, gravel giving way to concrete near the building that housed it. The walkway spread out to the right and joined with the large, open space where the travel lift sat idle. A blue sailboat hung suspended in its canvas slings as Bart, the travel-lift operator, pressure-washed the scum from the hull. Small piles of barnacles, dislodged from the propeller and shaft, lay under the boat. A waft of ripe algae filled the air, borne on the mist from the pressure washer.

      At the door to the office, Ian leaned his plank against the wall and held the door for Patrick. “You’d better get some ice on that.”

      Patrick examined his knuckles, flexing his fingers gingerly. “Doesn’t feel like I broke anything this time.”

      “That’s progress,” Ian said solemnly, but his eyes twinkled as Patrick laughed.

      Cool air-conditioning bathed their faces as they walked inside. Before them was a long, waist-high counter, bare except for a display of brochures at one end, a three-ring binder and a large desktop calendar. The calendar was filled with writing, every date covered, with notes made in the margins, as well. Behind them, against the window, stood two wooden chairs with a low table between them. Supposedly for waiting clients, Patrick could rarely remember anyone actually sitting in the chairs. Most of the people who stepped through the door at A&E Marine were longtime customers who walked behind the counter to grab a cup of coffee from the small break room in back. Or they borrowed some tool. Or they leaned against the counter and talked and talked, sometimes for hours.

      Elaine Berzani looked up as they entered the office. She sat at one of two desks behind the counter.

      “What have you done this time, Patrick Michael Berzani?” she asked, bustling around the end of the counter and taking his hand. “Ian, go get your brother some ice.”

      “Ma,” Ian protested. “Patty’s the one who smacked his truck. Let him get his own ice if he’s going to be so stupid.”

      Elaine leveled a glare at her eldest son. Ian sighed and dropped his tool bag with a clank, disappearing into the break room. Coming back, he thrust an ice-filled towel at Patrick.

      “Here, stupid.”

      “Thanks, ugly.”

      Elaine frowned at her sons. “Stop it, both of you. Patrick, sit down and keep that ice on your hand. Ian, your father just called and said Jimmy Johnson is down looking at his boat. He’ll stall him as long as he can, but you’d better get there right away.”

      “I told that idiot it wouldn’t be done until next week,” Ian grumbled, picking up the tools again.

      “Don’t call your father an idiot.” Patrick grinned at Ian and was rewarded with a rude gesture.

      “You should be handling Johnson, not me, bro. You’re the one who should have test-sailed the damn thing by now.”

      Elaine rolled her eyes. “Somebody better go. I think the healthiest and sanest one. I’ll tend to the injured and insane.”

      “Tell Dad I’m on my way. You want to go get a beer after?” Ian asked Patrick.

      “Yeah. I’ll be down on my boat. Tell Jimmy I just got back and I’ll take his boat out tomorrow.”

      Ian nodded and left the office. Elaine went back behind the counter and picked up the walkie-talkie. After she had delivered the message to her husband, she turned and sat down. Her gray eyes surveyed him expectantly. She was a pretty woman, small and sprightly. Dressed in jeans and a powder-pink polo shirt, she looked more like Patrick’s older sister than his mother.

      Patrick took a chair at the desk that faced hers and propped his feet on the corner. His bruised knuckles felt better—numb from the cold, but better.

      “So you punched your poor truck again. What did it do this time?”

      “Nothing. I was mad.”

      Elaine pursed her lips. “That’s a news flash. About what?”

      Patrick shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m over it.”

      The look on his mother’s face told him she didn’t believe this fabrication any more than the other lies he had told her. “That’s the third time, isn’t it?” She shuffled a few papers on her desk. “Or is it four?”

      Patrick shrugged. “Ian counted three.”

      Elaine kept her eyes fastened on him, as if she knew what he was thinking. Patrick said nothing and looked out the window behind her at the docks and the water.